The Day Nightmares Started Talking
by Aliada
Summary: Mary had never been known for believing in ghosts, or any other irrational fears for that matter. Rational ones were enough of a bother as it was. Her life with John Watson was... happy. Until other words for it came rushing to the fore. Until Other Mary reminded them of her existence.
1. Prologue

**A/N**. _Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Sherlock. They are the property of their creators. No infringement intended._

_This is the third part of "The Day..." series. Thematically, it is closely tied to "The Day We Stopped Running" which describes John/Mary relationship through John's eyes. This time, primary focus is on Mary and her desperate attempts to lead a normal life, or other people's definition of it._

If someone had said to Mary that this was going to be a fun day, she'd probably smile, politely, and brush it off. She'd always been very liberating with that sort of thing. "Fun" was by far the most polysemantic word in people's vocabulary. "Go" didn't come anywhere close.

At most, _people's_ definition of fun included a fast, if a bit reckless, drive on a motorway, or a drunken night at a pub with no memories of it on the next day. For Mary, however, "fun" was always about memories. These pieces she could record, stuff in her head, and then replay whenever she wanted. Was she an addict? Of course, she was. She'd be the first to confirm it. Denial could be a nice thing, but then again, what was the point of lying to yourself. You could lie to other people, she herself certainly did - was rather proficient in that, in fact, but lying to herself… she'd always despised the thought. It was for the people who didn't know what they wanted. Mary had a lot of faults, but this one wasn't among them.

She wanted to live. She wanted to breathe. She wanted to take every chance, no matter what it would bring. At least, it didn't matter until now. Until she caught a glimpse of John Watson. Sad. Resigned. Hurt. Yet determined. Determined to do… something? She wasn't sure about that part, but she needed to be. She needed that so badly that nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

After that, she didn't have much fun. She had memories, though. Every day would make for a decent one. No near-death experiences. No guns. No killing. And yet, the 'thrill' folder in her head seemed to grow in proportion every single day. The thrill of being alive instead of surviving. The thrill of smile in John's eyes when she managed to cheer him me up - well, in all honesty, there were only some faint traces of it, but even those were enough. Enough to put another kind of meaning in her life. Another kind of _fun_.

Fun of the now-gone days. All but a sometimes-too-distinct memory. She'd revisit it once in a while. She'd keep herself up-to-date. It wasn't the fear of forgetting and _losing_ that drove her. It wasn't the feeling of necessity, or nostalgia. It was the need. The need that never really went away.

It could sleep for days, for months. And then it would just wake up, violently and only too-predictably to keep ignoring. It was when she revisited her memories. When she made her decisions, the most important of which being "What to do with John?"

She didn't like solving that puzzle. Too much depended on its outcome. Too much. She never liked being overwhelmed by things but here she was. Overwhelmed. Confused. Lying. Wanting to confess and lying all the same. Confessing would have been a way out. A relief. An absolution. That was what she was taught to believe. Maybe it was even right. But not for her. People like her… truth never brought them anything but contempt and dismissal.

A way out, indeed. A way out of normal, sane life, or at least the sanest one she was capable of having. A way to lose her last chance.

Would she fall apart? Kill someone? Kill herself? All of these were plausible, but none described the _real_ consequences.

_"Do you know what will happen if you leave me, John?"_

_"You will stalk me for the rest of my life?"_

_"No. I will HAUNT you. In this life, and the next. And then I'll ask you one question: why?"_

_"Sometimes I think you should have become…"_

_"I did. Everything you can imagine, and more."_

_Much more, in fact, but John didn't need to know about that, did he?_

_Why? Why would you leave me?_

_She knew the answer, she knew it all too well, and that's why the urge to ask was nearly unstoppable. She smiled when she asked it, even laughed. Her voice trembled from the emotional extortion but she knew that she could rely on her cheerful disguise. It could hide almost anything. And this… this was but a small piece of 'anything'. A very small piece that needed to be let out before it strangled her._

Mary had been used to emotional rollercoasters. To the excitement, to the _fun_ of them. It never lasted too long, though. The aftermath came with a price tag attached.

The cost of emotional matters was the highest. The more emotions were involved, the messier it got. Mary had been trained to deal with messes, and even better, avoid them. It might have been the title of her job description if they were given one.

_Avoid the mess because once it's started, you lose all control, and once you lose all control, you're the victim._

Victims were weak and helpless. A punch bag for others. The sufferers of this world. And if Mary knew one thing it was that life wasn't meant for suffering. It was meant for living. Living like there is no tomorrow.

Living with John made her aware of tomorrow. Made her aware of too many things in fact.

Mary cringed at the thought. The message was true, though. You could either have an ordinary, uneventful life or another kind of life. And these two very rarely made for a good mix.

Everything in-between was a trap. And one of those had just closed behind her.

You could still have fun in a trap, though, and Mary was making the most of it. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes she thought she could escape. But she knew that nothing could prepare her for what was really to come.

Fun meant different things for different people. For Mary, it meant struggle. And now she was struggling for balance. For acceptance of who she was. For John. For the traces of laughter in his eyes. For his trusting expression she didn't deserve. For all these things that made a life "normal" and made her forget that there was another kind of fun.

There was a third meaning, though. Fun could also mean something strange, unexplained, bizarre. She'd certainly encountered these things in her life.

_This_, however… this was nothing short of madness. And also, the last thing she would've expected.


	2. Other Mary

**A/N**. _So, finally an update! Mary is about to get that scary wake-up call, and the game is about to begin._

The phone gave one ring and stopped.

Mary shot it an irritated look and carried on. She had to finish cleaning this goddamn couch before the last shreds of her patience evaporated.

John was out. Buying groceries or something.'Something' probably involved an exhausting round of running which he believed no one knew about.

_You took your time._

_Yeah, shopping was a bit slow._

_'Or you weren't fast enough.'_

She didn't say it out loud of course but couldn't quite get rid of the teasing bit in her smile.

She very rarely could. And John seemed to like it. She had to be very careful, though. Too much, or too little, one false move, and her tower would turn into ruins in a matter of seconds, and she'd been building it too carefully to give up any ground. Everything had to be kept hidden, and safe.

Sometimes it was easy. Too easy to be in any way entertaining.

Sometimes it was excruciating. Even more so than John's 'I-can-be-perfectly-fine-without-Sherlock' exercises.

They both lied. Lied to escape.

Mary shook her head, suddenly aware of the fog that was becoming thicker by the moment.

She had a good night's sleep but her eyes were heavy with slumber.

She needed a cup of strong coffee. She needed…

The phone rang once again. And again. There was nothing unusual in this. Nothing unusual at all. Someone was simply calling her to…

_To say hello?_

Mary took a deep breath squeezing the brush with more force than she intended.

Something wasn't right, and no cleaning could amend this.

Intuition was by far the most important part of her job. Spur-of-the-moment reactions with no control from the conscious mind. Fight-or-flight responses, so damn fast she could barely catch up with them herself.

Her body was directing her. Telling what to do. What to feel.

Oh, she could of course ignore that. She would be a poor assassin if she couldn't deal with her feelings. Or their absence. Cold, unemotional – that is what they were. It wasn't a myth, only a half-truth. Didn't she feel? She would have to stop being human. It was never so easy. Assassins were no fairytale villains, no cartoon characters with grotesque vices - life didn't work this way. And yet, it still turned people into monsters with dried out hearts. There was no drama in it, though. Always subtle. Always subdued.

She could still smile and laugh. She could feel love, and regret. She could suffer from defeat. She could let guilt cut her air off. She could hate herself.

She could be human.

Or she could be an assassin. Could pull the trigger. Lie. Cheat. Die.

Most of the time, she didn't even have to choose. It came naturally to her. It was like changing masks with no real awareness of it.

She liked discovering which of the roles gave her more chills. Looking for them, trying them on, like dresses - it was the fun part. Seeing what she was capable of.

She never cared about money or power, not really. She'd not have been any good if she was.

But living each day as if her last, letting her veins fill with adrenaline and euphoria - that was her addiction. Smiling and laughing felt so much better after that. Life felt better.

The hilarious part was, John was missing the very same thing. He would never tell her of course. He would think she wouldn't understand.

Sometimes Mary was disappointed with his lack of observation. Things would've been so much more exciting if he could observe.

They could play hide and seek all day long.

And then he would find all the evidence and leave her for good. Leave and never come back.

Mary felt a faint prickle of nausea and tried to swallow. Her mouth was too dry, though. No saliva. No relief.

The mere thought of water made her stomach squeeze in disgust.

_Stop and think._

No, she didn't need to think. She needed to act. She needed to get out.

Mary wetted her lips hoping that her throat would open and take the liquid because the alternative didn't seem so pleasant.

And John would definitely complain about the smell.

She made herself stop and took a few long, measured gulps.

That was better. That was…

The juggling sound interrupted her thoughts, or more like added to them because she felt like she'd never really stopped thinking about it. Dreading it.

Yes, it was just a phone. And anyone could be calling. Absolutely anyone. Still, this was the most unconvincing consolation ever.

Consoling herself had always been the hardest thing.

A sharp clinking sound nearly made her drop the glass she was holding. Keys in the sound of the door being unlocked. The sound of _John_.

She could imagine the picture. John, a bit grumpy but cheerful, looking at her standing in the middle of the bloody room and listening to the bursting phone. And all of this with a lovely addition of pieces of glass on the floor. Could anything be more ridiculous?

"It's open, come in!"

She forces the words out. Some things you simply _have_ to say out loud. Otherwise, believing in them can be a bit of a bother.

"Why would I close the door?" she adds, smiling at him, and rushes to get the bags.

John shrugs, almost happily, and struggles to catch a breath.

Cycling. He should definitely try cycling.

"Were the bags that heavy?"

She inquires, with an innocent grin.

He tells her to shut up and kisses her. His lips are dry. Dry and warm. No water. Definitely light-headed.

"You should rest for a bit, old man."

John lets out a chuckle and grips her by the neck.

"You are so… annoying sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

Something in his eyes changes. Not a good sign.

The damn phone doesn't stop ringing.

"You should probably take this?"

John still smiles but she catches a strain in his voice. She will have to take care of it. She will have to…

"Yeah."

She makes sure the smile doesn't leave her eyes and points to the kitchen.

"The bags. We still have to make dinner."

John moves to lift the bags so she can't see his expression. Sometimes she wonders if this is a deliberate thing on his part. If so…

Mary shakes her head and squanders the thought in the bud. Stupid. It's simply stupid. And if not, she will have the time to think about it. Think and do something. Until it's too late.

The phone handle is hot. She touches it and barely resists the urge to pull away in disgust.

_Calm_. She has to be calm.

John can't see that. None of it.

"Hello?"

She shuts off her brain and lets her hands and voice do the usual thing. Answering calls. Making sense.

It's just a phone call. Nothing but a phone call.

Could be Kate. Or someone else.

If she expects to hear breathing, there is none. There are words, though. Words that do _not _make sense.

"You want to play?"

In Mary's experience, things rarely went well when she heard this phrase. _Did they go bad then?_ No, they didn't _go_. They just didn't… exist.

The purpose of playing was in escaping reality. Denying it altogether. Mary might not have read enough postmodern novels - too posh and meaningless for her taste, but she still could spot a difference between playing for fun and playing for an escape, and the second kind was much more common. In her case, anyway. Whatever the kind, though, she could never resist.

And she wasn't sure she would be able to now. Addictions didn't go away that easily, did they?

"I suppose the game has already began, so what's the point in asking?"

She expects a laugh, and she isn't disappointed. It's not exactly sinister, but it's enough to make her heart skip a beat.

Playing with words, playing with meanings - she is used to that. What she is _not_ used to is the shock of what comes next.

Yes, the laugh isn't sinister, not in the traditional kind of way, at least. In fact, it beats _sinister _any day. Destroys it completely in favor of the new thing.

"Clever girl, aren't you? But then, who would understand your better than your other half?"

_Your other half_. Mary wants to laugh. The voice certainly doesn't mean _lovers_. Mary still prefers men, the last time she checked at least. She would probably check again - if she could move a muscle, that is. She can't, and that makes the situation just a bit complicated.

Mary still wants to laugh, and it's not even funny. It's mental. Utterly, disturbingly mental.

"Oh, don't pretend you've lost the power of speech. You're better than this."

_Better than this. _Than what? Panicking at the thought that you're talking to yourself? She'd gladly take her criticism here.

"What do you want to play then?"

She makes sure her words are as cold and unemotional as possible. No missing sounds. No cracks. She knows how to handle herself in stress. She isn't sure that she known how to wrap her mind around that one, though.

"Riddles. Why don't we play riddles? We loved those as girls. Couldn't live a day without solving one."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes." She mutters before she can catch herself. Being in trance doesn't help, much, but at least she can appear calm.

"Of course not. And you never will be, Mary. Not for John, anyway."

That hurts.

Was she ever trying to replace Sherlock?

Yes, she was, and the failure of it burned her insides to a crisp. John's reaction to Sherlock's return was enough of a warning bell. Mary noticed, of course, how could she not? But it was not an ordinary competition – far from it. He was Sherlock.

"And he was good, wasn't he?"

Mary answers with silence, but that does not stop the wheels in her had from spinning. _Quiet_ is not always a synonym for _waiting. _Sometimes, it embodies action, or its anticipation. But, in truth, she has too little energy for either.

"You liked him so much that you abandoned all caution and decided to play."

Mary's silence changes its color: its grim, reserved nature allows rare flickers of red – a warning, a cautionary tale, lost under the weight of reason.

And the reason tells her that there is no such thing as actually, verbally talking alter egos. There is just not.

She wants to embrace that reality and stay there, inhaling the saneness of it, letting it cure her of the bothersome pangs behind her eyelids. It does not resemble the 'tears are near' burning. In fact, the tears seem almost unreachable now.

She failed to heed this warning once, with Sherlock, and she was about to fail again.

"What are the rules?"

She knew there were some. That bit never changed. It just continued to grow in size, to mercilessly expand until all her life was one big rule. For most people, it was something like, 'be happy', 'be successful', or, in especially tragic cases 'do not get attached'. This one could have been hers, but for the simple fact that she enjoyed these attachments way too much. The breaking bit was never pleasurable, but it was always intentional on her part, and always manageable. She had always been living her life this way - managing and enduring, readily facing these self-imposed consequences that she kept attracting, even rejoicing in them. Was she ambitious? Could all of that be an unsated ambition? She could not tell. It could, and could not. For most people, under the thick blanket of ambition, lay, often dormant, the need to feel secure. They found their security in desiring and gaining, acquiring and proving. Hers was barely existing as long as she could remember, and she was surprisingly content with that. In her case, more ambition did not translate into more security. On the contrary, the end result was more of the same - more excitement, or thrill of the chase, as Sherlock was fond of calling it, and more mess. Sherlock. He was an exceptional mess-maker. John's state was but one example of his extraordinary talents.

"The rules are the same."

Was she expecting any other answer?

"You fight for control and in the end… well, you either win or lose."

Yes, that was true. There was no middle ground between the two. And in truth, Mary hated any 'middle ground' by definition.

"John?"

She knew that already, but confirming it was a must, a necessary step. All games, with no exception, demanded one thing: knowing the rules came before playing.

Other Mary - or whoever that was (Mary herself would have much more preferred the "whoever" variant) - made an amused noise, and, judging by that, Mary could have easily guessed what was coming next_. Could_ did not always equal _did_, though.

"John? Oh you have already lost him. I was talking about Sherlock."

"Why would I...?"

"Because you have yet to lose his interest. And that would be a tragedy, would it not?

She is tempted with another 'why', but there is no point in voicing it. She will get an explanation anyway, and a very detailed one at that.

"He can still convince John and make it bearable for you. And that is one valuable asset, wouldn't you agree?"

Mary finally lets the irritation in.

"Why is it always..."

"About him? Well, we would have to ask the three of us about that."

"The three of us?"

"Ourselves and John"

Now, the voice is no longer amused, it is mocking.

"Come now, Mary, you are better than that. What happens when a personality is split? Is one half good and another evil?

Mary would very much like to confirm that, but it just cannot be that easy, she does not think.

"No, they are simply different sides, intensified, sometimes to an extreme, and expanded."

The faint sound of breathing at the end of the line rises in volume, and Mary knows that the game is on.

"So which one are you?"

Impatience in her voice is intentional. Other Mary would like that, and maybe would spill some secrets as a gratitude. She does not at all expect a clear answer, but an intelligible one would be a big plus.

"You have been quite depressed lately, my dear, and it is getting annoying. No wonder John is growing restless. But what if we showed him another side?"

Mary's own annoyance is threatening to evoke an explosion out of her.

"Sherlock had been showing him enough of that. He needs..."

"... something not boring, and you are, quite frankly, an epitome of boredom at the moment."

She is too tired to feel offended.

"Roles are good, Mary, masks are even better. But when you pretend long enough, all of it becomes crippled. Pick another tune for a change, and make sure you enjoy this one."

"I have. It is called sincerity."

"So you are sincerely depressed. Not a bad start."

"And what are you? Pathologically happy?"

"In short, yes. But I wouldn't be so harsh about it. I am just as sincere, but I am happy about it, and you are miserable."

"You are drifting away, Mary. You are no longer enjoying the game, and that is the first sign of a housewife. At least be a happy housewife."

Mary squeezes the phone so hard that her fingers tremble from the effort.

"But no worries, I'll show you everything you need."

Mary tells her to shut up, but she knows, clearly and disturbingly, that she will follow every bit of that ominous 'everything'. They say that lying to oneself is hard, but rejecting oneself is near to impossible. It is not a rebelling of her heart; these words are just as strongly tied to the ruthless logic of her mind.

John does not like her housewife role. If she is truthful, he seems quite annoyed with it. And so is she, which makes it one miserable existence.

In her attempt to compete with Sherlock by giving John a perfect domestic life, she had given him a perfectly Sherlock-y version of a domestic pretense. Was not that a great irony?

Other Mary's voice acquires an unexpectedly human quality.

"Your first task is to talk to John. Show him the difference between Mary and Rosamund. Show him who is better."

"He had never known Rosamund."

"And that is why you need to show her. You were Rosamund when you met him, and you need to be her now. This Mary Watson act is greatly overrated, you have to admit."

She does not deny it. She is not sure she could.

Talk to John. Apart from an occasional joke and a 'who is going to the shops?' chat, they haven't been doing that lately. Or ever?

Talk to John. She could turn off the phone, go back to cleaning and pretend this never happened. And when John asked, she could tell him that it was Kate, or Beth, or Mary... other, helpless Mary who needed her help.

Mary put the silent phone down and turned her head. She did not even have to find him. He was sitting right there, wearing a puzzling expression and a hint of a smile.

Mary – Rosamund - smiled back.


	3. John

**A/N: **_In 4.1 Mary tells John that he was a "perfect husband and she did not deserve him." But what if all their problems were rooted in the fact that John believed the same? She was a "perfect Mary", he was a "perfect John", and they were never the real versions of themselves. In other words, apart from the scary 'Other Mary' stuff, the purpose of this story is to take a look at what would happen if Mary and John's relationship were deteriorating quicker than shown in the series._

_Also, a bit of a warning: John is very angry and bitter in this chapter, even though he tries (rather unsuccessfully) to convince himself that he is not_**.**

John was in quite a mood today. Waking without nightmares had been an achievement in and of itself, but waking up and feel ready to face the day… well, that was almost luxury for the past few months - those months that dated right back to Sherlock's "not dead" announcement.

At first, he was positively intoxicated with the nervous energy that never seemed to find a suitable outlet. He'd tried many things. He'd tried punching objects. He'd tried punching Sherlock. He'd tried playing it cool.

_"Playing it cool? Seriously, John? You would be the first to scoff at this… phrase." _

_That was not necessarily true, but John still had to chuckle at the expression on Sherlock's face. _

_"With you, it is a life-saving skill."_

Afterwards, Sherlock had given him the obligatory "I don't know what you are talking about" spectacle and disappeared in his room to sulk.

But yes, if he was being honest, he did hate the phrase, which still did not eliminate the fact that he was using it as a guideline in nearly every conversation.

It was not doing much for the continuous jittering in his chest, but it helped him to appear calmer. And saner.

With Mary, it was especially vital. He could not exactly tell why, but following that bit of intuition somehow made him feel better. And since that was the ultimate goal, he decided not to trifle with technicalities. _Why? Why not?_ Sometimes these questions were best kept hidden.

Mary was much better at this… all of this. Domestic life. Domestic bickering. Everything well-rounded and normal.

She'd even managed to befriend Sherlock somehow. John still couldn't quite wrap his mind about it.

Sherlock was indifferent to most people. At best, he used them for spare parts. At worst, he refused to talk to them altogether. And there was a rather limited number of exceptions to this rule. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. Mycroft, to a certain extent. John suspects that there is one more name to this list, logically speaking, but thinking about it feels indulgent, so he does not.

But Mary… Mary did not even have to reserve the place. It was just there, staying vacant, waiting for her to appear and fill it.

The idea itself was more than irrational, but John couldn't quite shake the feeling.

It all began with a frankly ridiculous "I like him" and then went further downhill.

Or "uphill" in Sherlock and Mary's case. They seemed to enjoy themselves, at the very least.

John did not care much for Sherlock's enjoyment, but Mary… Mary was exceptional.

She was… John pressed his fingers to his forehead, feeling migraine coming up. That was actually funny, in a way. He had been living with her for two years, and he still could not quite place her. And probably, only probably, it was the time to admit that in earnest.

The thought is unpleasant enough, so he does not at all mind when it is interrupted by the sound of a subdued whisper. Mary's whisper. John tries to distinguish the words, but soon gives it up with little regret: it is not even important what she says, the important thing is Mary whispering… on the phone. He does not think he had ever heard that before. A bit of an unexpected change.

He tells himself that it is curiosity that makes him leave the room and go towards the sound, but believing in it is a bit of a bother. There is another reason. Something he cannot quite place.

"He had never known Rosamund."

This bit sounds a little louder, as if she has finally snapped.

Rosamund, though? Who is Rosamund?

Well, to solve that he has to at least know whom Mary is talking to, and that is a mystery so far.

_Solve _that_?_

For a second, John feels like a ridiculously obvious stalker and it amuses him. The next second, however… the next seconds brings a far more uncomfortable feeling. What is he doing spying on his girlfriend to begin with? Where did it come from? Why does it matter to him who she is talking to?

Probably Kate. Or Beth. Or whatever. But for some peculiar reason, "whatever" does not wish to go away so easily. In fact, it begs to be replaced with some real content.

Mary hangs up the phone and turns to him. Unsmiling. Well, _that_ is definitely a bit of a bother.

But then her eyes light up slightly, as if unsurely, and a smile appears. As if she is not certain how to respond.

Respond to…

It should not take him a long time to realize that he is smiling, but, disturbingly enough, it does.

He is indeed smiling. And he has little to no idea why.

"Who was that?"

It barely registers in his mind, but his voice is mostly casual, and just a little but playful.

Mary breaks eye contact and chuckles nervously. Then, as if driven by some force, looks him in the eye and releases the bitten lip. He expects her to lick it, as she always does, but she does not. Her eyes study his face, as if in a hurry, and return to his eyes. It's an all-out look, and it takes him by surprise. Mary does not give him such looks, not anymore. She used to give him similar ones when they had only met, but those looks were only similar in intensity, not in the content. They were daring. Challenging. It was a perplexing curiosity, warmed by the nascent affection. He, also, used to be warmed by it. Now, he was cold. And Mary's gaze held no more challenge. Instead, there was caution.

"You know, Sherlock once told me that you were not suited for domestic life."

Her voice is just a bit amused, so, logically, he should give her a similar reaction, but a sudden spark of anger deprives him of all rational thought.

_Sherlock_. He is half-tempted to go to the Baker Street and punch him a few more times, until he realizes that there are things that do not concern him. In fact, the urge is so strong that he has to close his eyes and exhale. Something burns uncomfortably under his eyelids.

Mary would be amused.

She is not, though. Her voice is calm, but there are holes. He can feel them. There are holes that he cannot cover, and will never be able to. He cannot even convince himself that he is in the good mood because his nightmares went away. Apparently, trying does not correlate with actual improvement.

"John."

By all rules, her voice should sound perplexed, but for some damn reason it is understanding.

What _is_ there to understand?

"He told me that you could not be satisfied until you were in the middle. Half of this, half of that. And that is… that is what you had with him, so I suppose he knows best. And he does, John. He does know you."

"I don't _want_ him to know me," John growls and realizes that it is a voice of a person on the edge. Of someone who will soon be beyond repair.

Sherlock will see to that alright. And, apparently, so will Mary.

"I asked you a simple question, and I would like a simple answer."

Trying to keep his voice in check obviously does not work, so John opts for politeness. What he really wants to ask, though, is why _the hell _does every conversation have to be about Sherlock?

Mary pales, actually visibly pales, but her expression does not lose a friction of determination, and John suspects that he will not like the answer one bit.

"You're miserable, John. And so am I. And so is Sherlock. That is why he matters. All three of us matter."

John wants to deny her words, but he cannot find any reasoning sound enough to hold. Insisting that he is not miserable? It would be a joke, and not a good one.

"So what do you want me to do?" The words come out bitter, unhinged. "Go to him and say I'm sorry?"

Mary shakes her head and looks at him with a maddeningly exasperated expression.

"No, John. Go to him and say that you've accepted _his_ sorries."

His sorries. That word is frankly ridiculous, and so is Mary's advice. Sherlock Holmes being _sorry_… a nice assumption, that.

"I don't think he'd ever apologized."

The rational part of John knows that it's not true. Apologies have been made, and considering that it was Sherlock who made them… they were quite sincere. He should have been satisfied. By all accounts, he should have been completely satisfied. And yet, he is not.

"We both know he had. And it's the hardest part, is not it? Sherlock is never sorry, never regretful. And John Watson… John Watson can never ask for help."

The usual "I don't need any help" is on the tip of his tongue, but he does not say that. Mary's expression is too serious. Too genuine. The novelty of it almost catches him by surprise. And he cannot bear saying yet another platitude. Because he does need help. But not from Sherlock. From anyone but Sherlock.

"And what about you, Mary? What is your 'never'?"

He hates how defensive that sounds, but can't really do anything to mend it. Some part of him says that it's a perfectly valid question, while another one dreads to hear the answer.

"Mary Watson."

This throws him off in a far more violent manner than he would have liked, or even expected.

"What?" That's the best he can manage, but Mary does not seem to need any more encouragement.

"There will never be Mary Watson, John. Do you know why?"

For a moment, he's tempted to come up with a joke and laugh the awkwardness off, but the determination in Mary's eyes stops him. Sherlock would have liked that little spectacle of theirs. In fact, he could now see why these two got along so flawlessly.

Not trusting himself to speak, he opts for an impatient gesture instead.

"Because there is no Mary Morstan. Well, there is a Mary Morstan somewhere in the world, but she in this room."

She pauses, and John expects a laugh, a grin or at least some bloody elaboration, but she gives him nothing. Now that he thinks of it, she had been giving him exactly that – _nothing_ – since Sherlock's return.

And so had he. Such a great couple they made.

"Care to be more specific?"

His voice is light, almost curious.

"This is not my real name."

Half a second before, he pretty much guesses these words. How could he not? It's the most complicated puzzle of the year, and he's hardly stupid, notwithstanding Sherlock's opinion on the matter. Had _he_ known? He had to. Sherlock knew everything and was never wrong.

John's throat is dry, but he still pushes the words out. Partially because it's a proper thing to do, partially because propriety is the last thing he cares about at the moment.

"I don't want to hear any more of that. Not now. Now we stop talking. We stop talking and…"

He can't find it in himself to finish the phrase. Not that it needs finishing anyway. He only spares two seconds to take his coat and makes his way to the door.

"John!"

Some part of his mind catches desperation in her voice, but he is no longer responsible for that. He can't be responsible for that at the moment.

_She_. He can't even call her Mary now, can he?

But her real name is the last thing he needs right now. Along with her past, which, he suspects, is hardly a pleasant nighttime story.

The door handle feels nice and steady in his hands, blocking for a moment the endless swirl of thoughts in his head. Must be the reason why they invented walks. And he was going to take one now.

Just to clear his head. Just to see if there was anything left of John Watson.


End file.
